


Mirrors

by dreadlockholiday, HopelessGeek (wuzzy90)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes as Captain America, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Science, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sandwich, Steve Rogers as the Winter Soldier, Threesome - M/M/M, Time Travel, Top Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, White Wolf Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadlockholiday/pseuds/dreadlockholiday, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wuzzy90/pseuds/HopelessGeek
Summary: The man standing a few feet in front of him is holding a heavy gun in his hand, the barrel aimed right between Bucky's eyes. The weapon doesn't shake, doesn't waver; it's ramrod straight just like the arm that's holding it.Ametalarm, Bucky notices. His blood grows cold just like the ice in those unforgiving eyes staring at him."Steve?"–All that glitters is not gold; sometimes it's just a glowy capsule that projects you into a completely different dimension.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 40
Kudos: 75
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020





	Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Sandwich fic is finally here!
> 
> Thanks to my friend and beta [Slagathor99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slagathor99/pseuds/Slagathor99) for the help and the hype, and thanks to [HopelessGeek](https://hopeless--geek.tumblr.com/) for having a lot of patience with me and my slow writing, and for the amazing art that she did for this fic that you can also find [here!](https://hopelessartgeek.tumblr.com/post/639048910695989248/my-role-reversal-fill-for-the-buckybarnesbingo-i)
> 
> This is our collaboration as [marvelcollabcupid](https://marvelcollabcupid.tumblr.com/) for [buckybarnesbingo](https://buckybarnesbingo.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Square filled: C1- Steve Rogers and C4 - Role Reversal
> 
> Pay attention to the tags! Supersoldier sandwiching will be a very relevant part included in the fic, so if it's not your cup of tea I advise against proceeding! 
> 
> Smut chapters will have additional tags in the notes to warn for specific sexual acts.

Bucky's Ma always said he was too nosy for his own good.

Between bits and pieces of memories belonging to a life long gone, sometimes Bucky still hears her voice in his head. "Don't bite off more than you can chew, Jimmy Barnes," she'd say, eyes narrowed in a dangerous squint that was more threatening than the words alone. Still, she wasn't an excessively strict mother, but Bucky knew to expect a generous swat on the back of his neck whenever he dragged himself home after getting in trouble.

And he got in trouble _a lot._ It was an inevitable consequence of being naturally snoopy and nosy, small hands always looking to sneak where they weren't supposed to sneak, but his mom managed to keep him in check. Between stern but rightful reprimands and well earned rewards for when he was a good boy – consisting of homemade cookies and an extra penny if he was lucky – Bucky's Ma raised a good, well-mannered kid out of him despite all his little quirks.

It worked fine; it worked very well, in fact, until somewhere in the middle of Bucky's early teenage years, which is approximately when _Steve_ came around.

The memory makes Bucky scoff fondly as he adjusts his hair in front of the mirror in the foyer of his and Steve’s house. _Of course_ it all got worse when Steve came into his life; he's a troublemaker par excellence, a reckless little shit that managed to drag Bucky along with him in committing little crimes all around Brooklyn, much to Winnifred’s dismay. "That Rogers kid is no good for you," she always muttered disapprovingly, and Bucky would nod his assent with little care, already thinking about the next time he'd get to see his best friend and engage in some new fun.

"Yeah… definitely no good for me." Bucky mumbles to himself now, but the smile on his face betrays the meaning of his words as it shines back at him from his reflection. His fingers gently comb and separate strands of hair to arrange them into a half bun at the back of his head, leaving the rest of his long locks to lay freely past his shoulders.

It's a look he goes for most of these days, always thankful for Shuri and the time she dedicated to teaching him new ways to style his hair while they mingled in the Soul Stone. Back then everything was… well, a _far too big_ disaster to be preoccupied with hairstyles, but it's not like they had much else to do in the uncertainty of nothingness they were thrown into, and overall it turned out to be a good coping mechanism.

It's all in the past now. More than a year has already passed since the battle – since the funerals, and the goodbyes – and things have been slowly settling into a lazy, grinding pattern, quieting down to what has finally become a normal life.

Just Bucky and Steve, and their cabin in the woods. Starting over.

It's good living, but far from perfect. Bucky knows what his ideal life would be like; Steve's hand would be holding his, their lips would connect in a kiss at any time, their eyes would meet and fill with unabashed love without ever tiring. They would sleep in the same bed, make love there and everywhere else in the house. Perhaps they would marry one day, adopt a cat, live together in their cottage until the end of their lives…

Bucky's daydreams have no meaning without Steve feeling the same on his end.

As it is, they're still just _friends_ , and Bucky values their friendship more than anything else. He knows he can't get everything from life, but at least he's got this; another chance at being happy, another chance at trying to right his wrongs, a chance at living like a human and not a machine.

His days are all pretty unadorned. While Steve still strives for a release to his energy and rage and restlessness, Bucky interests himself with simple things. His getaway lies in the quiet of books, in the soothing routine of journaling, in the mindless walks through the woods he takes every morning and evening.

There's a part of him that likes to have something to nourish and take care of, something to raise and bring life to, hence the proud little rows of plants growing in his garden, and their bunnies Apple and Berry living their happy life in the rabbit hutch Steve built close by.

Making a mental note to check on them after his walk, Bucky slips on a pair of sneakers and heads for the door. The afternoon warmth is already starting to fade into a chilly, shivery evening, but it barely affects his supersoldier body as he steps outside, clad only in sweatpants and a cotton t-shirt.

His shoes mutely crunch the leaf covered ground where it's painted yellow and orange and red by the early autumn winds, and the air is crisp and thin, leaving a nostalgic taste on his tongue. Bucky breathes it in, greedy lungs warming cold bites of wind.

He doesn't make it far from the house before the sound of an engine steals his attention.

Steve's been gone all day, and he's not supposed to be back before sunset at the very least, but as Bucky turns around and jogs the short distance leading back to the cabin, his heart starts to perform excited flips at the sight of his best friend standing right before his eyes.

His joy is quickly replaced by surprise, though, when he sees Bruce park his Jeep behind Steve's motorcycle.

"Hey, Buck," Steve smiles when he spots him approaching, and Bucky's cheeks warm up helplessly, heartbeat a little flutter in his chest.

He'll never get used to the effect Steve has on him; it's been a constant in his life for almost a century, a feeling that never grows old, never loses colour; a feeling that's sweet and safe like coming home, but stained with the bitterness of being unwelcome.

With his hands stuffed in his pockets and a smile climbing up to the corners of his mouth, Bucky watches Steve hop off the bike and put the kickstand in place, before he stands up to his full, glorious height, long legs stretching for miles under him.

The low sunlight gently drapes a golden veil over Steve's face; it catches on the secret amber hues of his beard, lies whisper-soft on the elegant bump on his nose. Bucky desperately wants to trace it with the tips of his fingers, create a little path for his lips to chase.

"Hey," _I missed you_ , he almost admits, but the words wither on his tongue, swept away by a gust of wind that leaves just their bittersweet taste in his mouth.

They're not for him to say. Steve is not for him to miss.

"You finished early?"

Steve nods quietly, no longer beaming eyes now trained on his shoes as they make their way to Bruce's car. He looks tired, frustrated, and Bucky's heart squeezes behind his ribs, hands suddenly itching to brew him warm tea, sit him down on soft blankets, take care of him until that rare smile is back on his face.

A magpie cackles in the branches above their heads, snapping Bucky out of the little Steve-trance he's been once again sucked into. He shakes himself out of it, willing back words of concern that long to spill out; _"Are you okay? Can I make you feel better? Please, let me love you."_

Instead, he redirects his focus on the mysterious contents lying in the open trunk of the Jeep. Taking a step closer, Bucky slides up next to a very concentrated Bruce who apparently doesn't even take notice of Bucky's presence, and he lets his eyes fall on the two metal cases sitting in the car.

They're heavy looking, littered with sophisticated coded locks at the seam, and Bucky immediately knows that whatever's inside must be pretty important for Bruce to keep it this safe.

"What’s this?" He asks, curiosity tickled and impossible to hold back.

"A little delivery," is Bruce's reply, "We're gonna keep these here at your place for now. I don't trust anyone at the compound with stuff like this."

"Stuff like what?" Bucky inquiries, throwing a questioning look in Steve's direction where he's standing by Bruce's other side. There's a little wrinkle between his eyebrows, a sign that he's been frowning too much, too long, and his arms are crossed defensively over his chest. He's staring down at the case like he's ready to fight it.

"I may have…" Bruce trails off. "Discovered something."

Steve scoffs the way he does when he's just about to show someone how pissed he is. "You _created_ it–"

"I did _not_ create anything. I just may have… _accidentally_ provided a vessel for something that already existed."

"We've already had enough of this, Bruce," He snarls, and it should be a funny sight; Steve jabbing his finger into Bruce's chest and looking up at him with anger burning in his eyes, but Bucky doesn't laugh. He knows by the twitch in Steve's jaw that he's one step away from throwing a literal fist fight with the Hulk.

"Was it really necessary to do this? Didn't you learn a hard fucking lesson last time we–"

"Listen." Bruce’s shoulder hunch up defensively. “There’s no way I could've known this would come out! I work with stuff like this all the time–”

“Yeah, that’s the problem!”

“Guys–” Bucky tries, watching the argument bounce between the two of them like a ball in a tennis court, but they pay him no mind.

"I'm a scientist! What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, maybe not create things that make stuff disappear and go God knows where?" Steve retorts, red in the face. "This could– God, Bruce, this could kill one of us and nobody would know!"

"That's not gonna happen."

"You don't know!"

"Yes, I do!"

And Bucky's had enough.

"Okay! Guys, you two are gonna stop now and tell me what's going on."

It grows silent, but the tension in the air is crackling louder than any spoken words. Bucky's throwing them both his practiced bruising glare, hands planted on his hips to highlight his indignation and mask the worry and confusion brewing inside him.

Steve is the first to backtrack, raising his arms up in defeat as he juts his chin towards Bruce with a dismissive gesture, making it clear it's up to him to explain the mess that has been created.

Bruce doesn't seem to mind, always so eager to flail about science and his weird experiments, however stupid and dangerous they might be.

"I've been doing molecular analysis on the remnants of the gauntlets," Bruce says as he fumbles with the codes to open the locks. "Surprisingly, there's still traces of energy from the Infinity Stones, and since it's _highly_ radioactive it caused a mutation in the Pym particles when I exposed them to it. The lab almost exploded, but I managed to confine the new element in capsules…" Bruce pauses long enough to make the locks pop open with a click, and then he lifts the lid of the case to finally reveal its contents. "Ta-daa!"

"You're fucking insane." Bucky hears Steve say, making the argument light up once more, but this time he doesn't spare them any attention.

His eyes are wide open and glued to what's just been presented before him, and a gasp escapes his mouth upon seeing what Bruce seems to be so proud of.

The inside of the case is stuffed with grey Styrofoam, and right there in the middle of it are snugly placed three capsules.

Bucky's first thought is that they're pretty. His face brightens first in surprise and then in marvel, taking in the way the capsules shimmer and shine. They're the shape of a sphere, roughly the size of a peanut, but they glow so bright it forces his eyes to squint against the light.

Leaning closer for better inspection, the science nerd in Bucky wants to squeal in excitement upon seeing how truly beautiful the capsules are. They're full of iridescent liquid that lazily flows inside with no apparent direction, causing a rainbow coloured light to be projected on the outside in playful flickers. It looks like there's minuscule diamonds in there, and if there's something Bucky's known for, it's definitely for liking shiny things.

He mentally _oohs_ and _aahs_ watching it all happen, and his hands twitch with the sudden need to touch, to feel and examine, to find out what the capsules are capable of doing.

Steve and Bruce's argument is in full swing by now, but Bucky tunes them out in favour of giving in to the sudden, careless impulse that's making his fingertips itch.

The capsules are exuding warmth all around them, but as Bucky picks one of them in his hand he's surprised to find out its surface is cold to the touch, and it feels like–

"ーBucky, no! Don't touch–"

* * *

–falling. He's falling, or maybe he's flying up or sideways, or perhaps he's not even moving at all. Bucky can't tell. It's like there's no gravity all of a sudden, no apparent sense of space, but his breath is sucked out of his lungs and all at once it feels like 1945 again and he's losing his grip on a metal rail and Steve is screaming his name and–

And he's falling; and his body hurts as if it's being compressed. It makes him scream, but he can't hear his own voice, and he can't see anything but bright colours; iridescent, flashing lights that are so blazing and intense it hurts to look. There's a shimmer at the end of the vortex; it's getting closer and closer at a terrifying speed and Bucky's right in the center of its trajectory with no escape. He can feel the impact coming; his eyes squeeze shut and his body curls on itself in a last attempt to save himself, and he thinks of Ma, of Steve, he thinks of–

* * *

He lands on his side, somehow.

Oddly enough, the impact he's expecting never comes, instead he finds himself lying on the ground as if he's always been there. It feels wet and freezing, and Bucky instantly thinks of snow.

It takes him a few long minutes to get his breathing under control. His lungs are aching as if he starved them of air for too long, and there are tears at the corners of his eyes that he wasn't aware of shedding. Bucky slowly relaxes his tensed up muscles and uncurls from the fetal position he's in, feeling ice burning his skin where it's bared.

The sensation is as jarring as a punch to the gut, sending his brain and body in shock. Something must be _very_ wrong, and Bucky dares to open his eyes, slow and careful as he braces himself for anything that he might encounter.

His first thought is _trees_. All around him, left and right, there's trees stripped of their leaves and covered by a candid, freezing coat. Bucky shudders upon realising that he is, in fact, lying on snow-covered ground. The wetness is seeping into his thin clothes, making them frigid against his numbed skin. It brings back memories he's never fond of revisiting.

Straightening up into a sitting position, Bucky's teeth chatter as he looks around like a lost fawn, confusion and apprehension etched into his expression.

"What…?" He frowns, wide eyes desperately searching for something familiar, something that makes sense and explains the situation he's ended up in, but the frozen woods surrounding him bear no answers.

His mind doesn't provide much help either, and for a second Bucky's convinced that he must be having a very realistic, crazy dream, but then his brain comes back online as he remembers: Steve, Bruce, a Jeep, glowy capsules.

"Fuck."

The _capsules_.

Bucky gulps when realisation dawns on him. He can distantly hear his mom’s voice in the back of his brain, scolding him and chasing him around the house with a wooden spoon for snooping through Becca's personal dresser, putting his hands where they weren't meant to.

 _"Fuck."_ He repeats, and he quickly scrambles to his feet, thinking about how he deserves a dozen of those merciless whoopings his Ma used to give him when he got into trouble.

A gust of wind races through the trees, the biting cold laying goosebumps all over his exposed skin, and Bucky wraps his arms around his body in a vain attempt to protect himself, both from the low temperature and the even colder rush of fear that's chilling him from the inside out.

Bucky tries to keep at bay the panic sizzling in his stomach, tries to rub two brain cells together to figure out a way to go back where he came from, but his mind is completely blank. He finds no comfort in his loneliness, no warmth in the quiet of the woods caging him in a self made trap.

Wherever he's ended up in is a place he's not supposed to be, and Bucky's had some experience, is clever enough to know those capsules have something to do with different timelines, or dimensions, or universes.

This is not his first rodeo with supernatural shenanigans and time travelling – Bucky's seen some weird stuff, he's fought aliens, hell, he even got _dusted_ – but in the heat of the moment his voice of reason can't seem to find a way out through the fog of confusion and panic that's obscuring his mind.

Taking deep, grounding breaths, Bucky tries to calm down and get a grip on the situation; there's no apparent way back for the moment. No Pym particles or stones or capsules on him that could reverse the process. His pockets are empty, and there's nothing around him that suggests an interdimensional portal he could go back through.

He spends long moments just standing in place, breathing slowly with closed eyes and trying to slip into a tactical, organised frame of mind that got ingrained in him after decades of Hydra training. Basic needs, recalibration: he's too cold, too exposed. Shelter and source of warmth required; assess perimeter, provide weapons for self defence.

His arm whirrs quietly at his side, ready for action, and with a little hesitation Bucky's feet finally move forward through the woods. There must be a trace of civilization nearby, right? Bucky holds tightly onto his hopes as he watches the trees get thicker and then scarcer as he goes, listens to the snow mutely scrunch underfoot, but other than that nothing changes, and it's not long before Bucky forces himself to stop. He looks around and up, but the sky is just a white sheet where it peeps between the branches of the trees. It makes Bucky feel helpless, _small_ , no matter how hard he tries to convince himself that he's got everything under control.

He frantically changes direction, hoping it will lead him somewhere this time. Five minutes pass, then ten, then twenty; Bucky's feet are numb and frozen, soaked with water, and he's shaking and shivering uncontrollably. He tries to push down the growing ball of fear that's starting to take more and more space inside his head.

It's a terrible sign. The tactical Winter Soldier training is completely failing him in a situation where it should be the most effective.

Bucky's aware of it. He's aware that he's losing control and that there's no point in trying to get out of the thick woods if he's just gonna keep spinning in circles, walking and walking only to return in front of the same disorienting picture. Everything just looks _identical_ , and Bucky wills himself accept the tragic reality: he's stuck.

Coming to a stop once more, Bucky lets out a shaky, resigned exhale. His stomach drops and his Adam apple bobs with his swallow. The goosebumps on his exposed skin are rough and sensitive, and the desire to have something or someone warm him up is scorching. He wishes Steve was here to chase away the cold. His absence feels like a massive hole in Bucky's chest, a void that renders his body paper thin, fragile, vulnerable.

Steve must be so worried right now, but what pains Bucky the most is the fact that there's a chance he'll never see him again. The thought makes his lip wobble, makes him sniffle pathetically.

He won't survive losing Steve one more time.

Regret sits heavy in his gut; Bucky wishes he'd looked at Steve a little bit more, talked to him a bit longer during the evenings, told him that he's special on those days Steve felt worthless and insignificant, told him that he's loved, that he's _so loved_ it hurts Bucky to _breathe_.

"Steve?"

And Bucky knows Steve can't hear him, but the name still slips from his tongue like a prayer. His voice echoes through the thick woods, but other than that it's dead quiet, and all it does is add to Bucky's desperation.

"Steve?" Bucky repeats. "Hello? Is anyone here?"

His mind is falling down the gutter, playing tricks on him, and Bucky thinks he hears footsteps in the snow – Steve coming for him, Steve finding him and saving him – but as he looks around the scenery is still the same.

"Steve…" And his breath is thin, and Steve's name is a plea. "Bruce? Steve? Can anyone hear me!?"

"Don't move."

Bucky freezes.

A trickle of fear slides down his spine and his head whips towards the source of the voice. It's strange and familiar, it's–

"Steve!" Bucky gasps, feeling hope and relief bloom in his chest upon seeing his best friend right before him; he's safe, he's not alone, they're gonna figure it out… but Bucky realises all too quickly that this is not his Steve.

It _can't_ be. The man standing a few feet in front of him is holding a heavy gun in his hand, the barrel aimed right between Bucky's eyes. The weapon doesn't shake, doesn't waver; it's ramrod straight just like the arm that's holding it.

A _metal_ arm, Bucky notices. His blood grows cold just like the ice in those unforgiving eyes staring at him.

"Steve?"

The man before him is stock still, deadly quiet, and something in Bucky's chest aches too deeply at the sight. It's like looking into a mirror, like seeing himself in someone else's eyes.

"I said don't. Move." The guy wearing Steve's face repeats, but Bucky's not listening, already moving forward without thinking, and it's a terrible mistake.

There's the cock of the gun, there's the sound of footsteps behind him, and Bucky knows it's a trap. He swings his metal arm behind himself with practiced precision without taking his eyes off Steve, but he misses the target, and then there's a sharp clang of metal against skull and pain blooms in his head.

Bucky's body doesn't even touch the ground before everything is black.

* * *

A voice is floating around.

It bounces softly off the walls, reaching Bucky's eardrums like a lullaby, and he imagines it like a person knocking on a door with a light hand, asking to be let inside, to worm its way into his brain and wake him up.

The thought is hilarious, for some reason. It makes a giggle slip from Bucky's lips, and the sound of it echoes back to his own ears as well. It also makes the voice stop, and Bucky can't help but feel a little sad about it; if felt good listening to it. It felt familiar, deep but warm like a cup of thick hot chocolate.

"He's awake," Another voice says. This one sounds familiar too, in a way. It sounds like it should be coming out of his mouth, like it belongs to him, but Bucky's pretty sure he's not speaking.

" 'm not speakin'..." He mumbles, trying to test if his lips are moving on their own volition, and _oh–_ his eyelids are so heavy, and his head feels _so_ funny, like he just fell on the ground and hit it on a sharp rock or woke up with a hangover.

The pain is the next to make itself known. It's an acute throb embedded deep in the back of his skull, and it makes Bucky wince, makes the room spin around in a rush of vertigo and– when did he open his eyes?

Bucky blinks through the fog that's gathered at the front of his brain and takes stock of his surroundings. The first thing he sees is a carpet – which makes sense, considering he's sitting with his head hanging down like a dead weight – and then he notices that his feet are bare. His toes are numb, paralised by the cold, and he gives up trying to wiggle them back to life. It hurts too much, just like his head does when he tries to lift it.

A groan escapes him at the sudden rush of dizziness and nausea, and he moves his hands to grab at his temples in a useless attempt to rub the pain away.

His arms don't budge, though, and for a moment Bucky thinks they're frozen, too. It's like a shot of fear being sent through him; being frosted is something he hoped to never relive again, and the adrenaline skyrockets in his veins, making him suddenly fully awake and alert and bringing his limbs back to life. When he goes to move his arms again, though, Bucky realises that they're pushed all the way behind him. There's pressure on his wrists, something that feels like rope and wood, and he knows, right then, what's going on.

Bucky snaps his head up despite the pain, and his brain quickly files what he sees: kitchen, wooden table, knife, Steve–

"Steve." The word flies free out of his mouth without shame, and Bucky feels his heart both surge and drop.

"Hello to you, too." Steve's sitting at the kitchen table in front of him, and his tone is flat, cold like the lingering ice on Bucky's skin, and it squeezes a knot tight in Bucky's throat.

He can't help but stare helplessly. It's jarring, and it's heartbreaking; it leaves Bucky speechless as his eyes take in the metal arm that Steve's got propped on the table. Something twists in Bucky's chest at the sight. He was so glad it was him and not Steve who fell off the train. He thanked the gods and the universe for sparing Steve the cruel fate Bucky got assigned instead, but it seems like there's always an exception.

If Bucky's biggest fears didn't become true in his timeline, then he supposes it had to be in this one.

Bucky's heart wants to rip in two, and even though this is not his Steve, at the same time it _is._ He's a man wearing Steve's face, his hair is that same funny golden shade, his nose has the same little bump, and Bucky's willing to bet on his own grave that he's got the habit of brushing his bangs from his forehead whenever he's nervous, just like the Steve he's grown up with does.

It might be Bucky’s hopes screaming too loud. Maybe this Steve is a completely different person, maybe the knife he's got stabbed in the wooden tabletop will slice through Bucky's throat next. It feels like it's already pierced Bucky's heart and soul anyway. He looks up at Steve's face, at last, not bothering to hide the sorrow in his eyes.

Steve is terrifying, intimidating, heartless, just like a Winter Soldier is trained to be, but there's a faint glint beneath the veil of darkness in those eyes that gives something away. Steve is not mind controlled right now; this is all him, and Bucky holds onto that hope for dear life.

Whatever's tying his wrists to the back of the chair is made of very resistant material, knotted tight. Steve clearly took stock of his metal arm, binding it well enough to make sure he's unable to break free, but Bucky still tries to flex his arms on impulse and test the restraints.

"Don't even think about it," Another voice says, and Bucky flinches.

It's not so much the realisation that there's been someone standing behind him this whole time that makes Bucky jolt; it's not even the feeling of something hard and heavy being suddenly pressed against his skull.

No, it's that _voice_ that makes him freeze on the spot.

Heart hammering in his throat, Bucky stares at Steve's face with wide eyes, searching for answers, but his expression remains the same; unfazed, unbothered, _lethal_.

"Who are you?" He finds himself asking, but he knows– _he knows_ who the person behind him is without even having to look.

It's his own voice that replies back to him. "I should be asking you that, don't you think?"

Bucky gulps. It should be impossible, but that accent and that drawl are nothing but _his_.

It's easy to connect the dots, and it would make sense, after all; if there's another version of Steve in this timeline, then it's perfectly plausible that another version of himself exists too.

"I'm Bucky." He says, his voice cracking embarrassingly, but he has no space for shame in his head when he's literally risking to be killed by his own self.

There's no way to tell apart the emotions swirling inside of him. They're clashing and colliding against each other like pinballs; the rush of shock, the sting of fear, the soul crushing horror of having a copy of himself standing right behind him.

"You're gonna stop with the bullshit right now." The gun presses harder against his scalp, a threat just like the snarl of its holder. "And no playing tricks, alright?"

"I'm not playing tricks," Bucky rushes to say, trying not to cower away from the weapon pointed at the back of his head. "I promise, I'm not–"

"Shut up," Steve cuts in, and his tone is cold like steel, and it's a shiver on Bucky's skin. "You're Hydra, aren't you? They figured out cloning now, too?"

"What–"

"Shut up."

Bucky does. His teeth clash together when he snaps his mouth closed, and he shuts his eyes, inhaling a deep, shaking breath.

This is bad. This is very, _very_ bad and Bucky has to make them believe him as soon as possible.

"I'm not Hydra." His voice is small, shattered, and when he opens his eyes he sees something trying to shatter in Steve's eyes, too. "I can– I can explain, please, just put the gun down."

Surprisingly, the gun moves away, but Bucky doesn't have the time to sigh with relief before it's pressed under his chin, pushing his head up until he's staring right at the person holding it, right into his own eyes.

It feels surreal. It's even more unsettling than coming face to face with a Winter Soldier version of Steve, because this… this is _him_.

A copy of his own eyes, of his nose and mouth and chin, a copy of flourishing youth that he once held. It's like a trip back in time when he was juvenile and untouched by the cruelty of fate; his hair was short at the top of his head, his cheeks clean shaven and smooth, ruddy with life, both his arms still made of flesh at his sides.

That's the picture he sees when he looks at old photographs. That's the picture he's staring at right now, too: an old but new Bucky Barnes, a version of himself that's the same but simultaneously it's _not_.

It's different and it's _wrong_ , wearing a Captain America uniform that doesn't belong to him.

He must be gawking in shock for longer than he's aware of, because suddenly the metal of the gun is biting harder at his skin.

"Explain then," Other Bucky urges. "Go on."

Bucky wants to hate him.

"I'm not–" He starts, but stops himself when he catches Steve caress the blade of the knife with a finger, his eyes never leaving Bucky's. He's pretty sure Steve has yet to blink. "I'm not a Hydra clone. I have nothing to do with them."

Which is a lie, of some sorts. The metal arm at his side gives it away, even if it's not Hydra's brand anymore. He can see in their eyes that he's not any bit convincing.

"I'm from another timeline." Bucky continues on. "I– look, it's a long story, but there's different timelines– parallel universes if it makes more sense. I um, touched a glowy thing in my own timeline and it transported me in yours. Here."

The following silence is deafening, ringing too loud against his ears, and it's only interrupted by Steve's metal fingers drumming on the table, bored.

Bucky feels himself flush with anger, with desperation. "I'm not lying," He insists. "I know it's crazy and it– it doesn't make any sense but–"

The gun presses harder against the vulnerable skin under his chin. Bucky looks up at the other version of himself with fear and ire in his eyes, mind reeling with anything that could convince them that he's telling the truth.

And then he gets an idea.

Bucky's not even sure it's gonna work; for all he knows everything in this timeline could be different, but he _has_ to try. It's his last straw.

"Please." His eyes are on Steve now. "Your mom's name was Sarah, Steve. You used to wear newspapers in your shoes."

Something in Steve's eyes shifts, and Bucky notices the swallow, notices the twitch in Steve's jaw that finally signals a crack in his composure.

The hand holding the gun trembles. Bucky looks at the brunet next.

"You… Bucky, you hate wool because it's too prickly on your skin. Every night before sleeping you flip the pillow twice because Becca always said it's good luck. And… and Steve's tomato soup is never tasty enough but you don't have the heart to tell him."

Other Bucky's lips twitch at the corners just as Steve's head whips towards him, his eyes wide and mouth agape with surprise and betrayal.

"It's true," Other Bucky says before Steve has the chance to interject, his mirthy smile disappearing when he turns back to glare at Bucky. "First of all, you, don't call me Bucky. Second of all, that still doesn't explain enough."

The words are meant to be threatening but Bucky can sense that the whole atmosphere has already changed. His suspicions are confirmed when the gun retreats, finally letting Bucky breathe in relief. The menacing aura that adorned Steve's face until now falls to pieces, leaving the space for a much softer and innocuous expression. He looks like a kicked puppy, confused and hurt and guilty and _so_ familiar.

There's no traces of the Winter Soldier in him now. This is all Steve.

"You're telling me my name is ridiculous?" Bucky can't help but ask after noticing the disdain in the other's tone, frowning when the throb in his skull comes back full force now that the adrenaline is gone.

"I'm just saying," Is the reply. "It doesn't suit me anymore. I go by James or J."

Bucky nods, secretly relieved. At least they're clear on how to call who.

"So you're me?" James asks, now leaning with his arms crossed against the kitchen counter behind Steve. "And I suppose there must be another Steve in your universe?"

"There is." Bucky's voice is suddenly thick with emotion as he remembers who he left back at home.

He's found himself in good company, with someone who he knows and at the same time doesn't, but Bucky's home is not here. He wants to go back where he belongs to, right in Steve's shadow, basking in his light.

"And how long are you gonna stay here?"

"I don't know." And it's terrifying, now that he thinks of it; just the idea of never seeing his Steve again– God. "I don't know how to go back at all."

It's silent after. Bucky can feel two pairs of eyes on him – one judgemental, the other woeful – but he doesn't bother looking back at them. His head is hanging low, gaze trained on his lap to hide how close he is to falling apart at the prospect of remaining here forever. It makes shivers blossom on his skin, but Bucky's pretty sure it's because he almost froze to death in the snow earlier too. He realises that no matter how warm it is in the house, he's still quietly trembling with the remnants of the cold soaked deep in his bones.

Steve seems to take notice of that, too. "J, can you get some dry clothes for Bucky?" He says, before he gets up from his seat and plucks the knife from the tabletop.

James rolls his eyes at the gesture. "Fucking ruined a perfect looking table, Stevie," He mutters with indignation as he disappears from the kitchen. "But no, you gotta be intimidating! You can be intimidating even without stabbing our furniture, you punk!"

Bucky watches Steve smile to himself as James' grumbling gets carried through the house. There's something incredibly sweet and fond there, something unabashed and pleased that makes Bucky think of love.

His mind strays away from the thought before it dips its foot in too dangerous waters, instead focusing on Steve as he steps behind Bucky. The bindings on his wrists fall apart with the slice of the knife, and Bucky sighs in relief when the strain on his shoulders and arm fades away.

"Thanks," He mumbles, getting up from the chair, and Steve is suddenly standing in front of him, grabbing his shoulders, staring at him with an injured look.

"You got the arm…" Steve trails off, his eyes taking in the metal prosthetic at Bucky's left with a mix of horror and guilt.

Bucky doesn't need to wonder what's going on in his head. He feels the same way, after all; helpless, sad, anguished. It's a fate none of them deserved.

"You too," Is Bucky's reply. A matter of fact. "You don't have it in my timeline. You're not the one…"

"Who falls?"

And Bucky recognises the look in Steve's eyes. It's the one _his_ Steve always gets after a mission, or after being reminded of a fatal day of six years ago when he had to watch his loved ones slip through his hands like sand.

Steve's really the same in every timeline, Bucky thinks; always feeling responsible for all the bad in the world, always blaming himself over things he has no control over.

"Yeah." Bucky whispers, offering a reassuring smile and hiding the pain that pierces his heart. He tries not to think about the cruelty of his past, and more so, he tries not to think about the fact that it's Steve who's had to endure it in this timeline. "But we're okay, it's okay. It's none of our fault."

Steve gives a nod in response, but his eyes don't agree with it. It's clear that Bucky's a bit a ahead of him with the recovery; he's gone through all the stages of grief already, all the ups and downs, he's past blaming himself for what's been done when _he_ was the victim – stripped of the right to live, of the right to die; robbed of his own identity. It will never be like it used to, but Bucky feels like himself now more than ever did in ninety years of life.

"I'm sorry." Steve swallows. "You…"

"I know, Steve," Bucky says, fighting the urge to wrap Steve in his arms and shush all those bad voices in his head. "I know. It's not your fault."

Steve's lips part like he's about to add something, but he's cut off when James steps back into the room with a pile of clothes in hand.

He's changed too, Bucky notices. The Captain America uniform and the shield are gone, replaced by a warm pair of sweatpants and a thick cable-knit sweater.

"Here you go," He says, handing the clothes to Bucky with a tight smile.

"Bucky, you can," Steve speaks, and his arms twitch at his sides like he wants to hold Bucky, coddle him, but he refrains. "You can take a bath? You should, you froze out there, you better get warm, alright?"

Bucky's cheeks ache with the urge to smile. "Sure," He says, feeling something pleasant squirm in his belly at the attention. "That would be great, thanks."

James watches the interaction with a raised eyebrow, and for a moment Bucky's afraid he overstepped a line he wasn't aware of existing, but his other self nods in agreement, at last, and waves his arm at Bucky, gesturing him to follow.

"Come on, I'll show you the restroom."

One last glance at Steve's smiling face makes Bucky blush, but he's quick to hide it by ducking his head and following James out of the kitchen and down a hallway.

He takes notice of the look of the house with curiosity as they go; it's rustic, lived in, composed for the most part by wooden elements and furniture, but at the same time it carries a modern touch. It appears to be a cabin much similar to the one he and Steve built back at home. The floors are made with fine parquet that's warm under Bucky's bare feet, and the hallway is ample, with artistic paintings and sketches decorating the wooden walls. The lights are all on to illuminate the space and chase the darkness away, which suggests that it's past sunset already.

Bucky must have been passed out for a while.

"Sorry I hit you with the shield," James says with a grimace when they stop in front of a door, and Bucky feels only a little offended at the apology. "I hope it wasn't too hard."

"It was pretty hard." He rubs the swollen spot on the back of his head. No wonder it was the shield; Bucky's pretty sure he would have died on the spot if it weren't for the serum. "It's fine, thanks for not killing me. You look funny in the Cap uniform, by the way."

"Hey!" James splutters. "I look fucking good in it, thank you very much."

Bucky snorts. Vanity is something he carries across all the timelines, apparently. "I'm just… I'm used to Steve wearing it in my dimension. It's his uniform."

His words come out more sorrowful than he means, and James' face does something complicated at the admission.

"Oh."

"Yeah," Bucky sighs. "This is like a role reversal, apparently."

Something in James' eyes darkens, and he ducks his head as if to hide it. It's a lot to take in; all the implications, all the realisations. As much as Bucky feels adverse to James, he knows this must be hard on him too, and the thought softens him a bit.

He hopes there's at least one timeline where they get to live a normal, happy life.

It feels like a lot to ask.

"I'll leave you to it," James says after he recovers from whatever's been haunting his thoughts. "And you'll tell me all about your Steve later. I'm curious." He finishes with a wink, and there's a sudden glint in his blue eyes that makes Bucky frown.

He feels like there's a reference he isn't getting, like there's something he's not aware of but James clearly is. It stirs brooding thoughts in his head, but he doesn't have time to ask more about it before James is leaving, walking back to where he came from.

Bucky's left staring after him with a frown, expecting him to turn around and say something, but James doesn't. His lean figure disappears once he enters the kitchen, and Bucky waits a handful of seconds before he decides it's time for him to get on with the bath, leaving all the questions for later.

The bathroom is average sized and warm when he steps in, the tiles a neutral beige colour framing the space with a nice atmosphere; whoever built it had good taste, and the design choices give the whole room a delicate touch. White towels paired with white marble counters and ceramics contrast delicately with the maroon rug laid in the middle of the floor. A wooden sculpture is hung on an empty spot on the wall, right next to a double sink and dark brown cabinet situated underneath it. Bucky likes it almost as much as the bathroom he and Steve built back at their own house.

Once his critical analysis is done and he's deemed the bathroom good enough for him to relax and bathe properly, Bucky steps further inside and places the clothes on the marble counter.

It's when his eyes meet his own reflection in the mirror that he realises how much he's actually shaken. His flesh hand is trembling and it's hard to swallow around the knot in his throat without breaking into tears. There's a bit of darkness under his eyes, and his skin is covered in goosebumps as if the snow never melted away. Bucky sighs at the sight; he looks a bit of a mess, with his half bun all dishevelled and skin robbed of its glow after the turbulent day he's had.

A bath will do him good, and he needs to fix his hair as soon as possible. Steve definitely noticed how tousled it is, and even though he's been nice enough not to comment on it, Bucky still flushes with embarrassment at the possibility of Steve thinking he's messy and neglectful of his own appearance.

He carries on with his tasks in an almost mechanical way. His mind being elsewhere, Bucky's half aware of what his body is doing; setting the water at the right temperature, undressing, stepping in the bath with a sigh of relief, soaking in the warmth.

As his muscles relax, Bucky replays the events of the day in his head; God, he's ended up in a completely different timeline just because he couldn't keep his hands to himself. It's not the strangest thing that's happened to him, but it's still incredibly astounding and unsettling, and what's worse, it is _upsetting_.

Bucky's angry both at himself for touching the capsule and at Bruce for creating it, but there's no use in wallowing in rage and frustration now. Maybe this trip to another universe has a meaning of some sorts, maybe it's a twist of fate that's bound to teach him a lesson.

He snorts upon imagining his Ma planning all of this as a punishment for his nosiness.

She'd have a point, after all. Perhaps it will all serve to knock some sense into his brain, and he'll go back home as a different, better Bucky. If he goes back home at all, of course.

The idea of being stuck here forever immediately chokes him up. It makes him think of his Steve; he was so angry at Bruce for creating the capsules, and Bucky wonders what he's doing right now and what's going on in that pretty head of his. Does he miss Bucky? Is he concerned? Angry? Would he even care if they never saw each other again?

There's a part of Bucky's mind that knows the answer: no. Steve's life is long, and it will be longer still – a great painting where Bucky feels like nothing more than a little detail in the corner – and Bucky could be there for the rest of it or he could walk away now and never come back again. Steve's strong, Steve knows how to move on, because there's nothing tying him to Bucky but their friendship.

Bucky, on the other hand, doesn't, nor does he want to. A life without Steve is a life not worth living; it would be grey, insipid, a waste of time, and he'll never be ready to leave Steve behind.

You don't know what you've got until it's gone, they say, but Bucky knows it painfully well. He's lost Steve over and over during his life only to find him again, and he desperately hopes that this time it's not any different. He hopes it will end up with them reuniting, hopes it will last forever.

Bucky feels numb when he gets out of the tub, a cold feeling settling in his gut while he brushes his hair in front of the mirror and gets dressed. The prospect of never seeing his Steve again fills him with dread, but he pushes it aside, trying not to let his mind slip down the dark path. At least the clothes James gave him are soft and cozy; a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, a fleecy hoodie, and fuzzy socks. The warmth that envelops him is like taking a bite of bliss, and the scent lingering on the garments is comforting. It's his own smell, he notices, and isn't that funny?

So many things are different in this timeline, yet his scent is still the one. Bucky bets James uses the same laundry detergent he does, too.

Taking one last look at his reflection, Bucky swallows at the vulnerability in his eyes. He's in a desperate need of a hug, and he knows that if he were to ask, Steve would give him one if he was here. Maybe this other Steve would, too, but Bucky feels embarrassingly shy and intimidated in his presence. It's unexplainable; it makes him want to squirm.

With a few finishing touches to his long hair, Bucky lets it cascade over his shoulders in neat locks. His day old stubble lays a shadow on his cheeks, accentuating his jawline, and the navy blue hoodie makes his grey eyes stand out.

A voice in the back of his brain is laughing at him for being so desperate to make a good impression on Steve, but Bucky shuts it up quickly. He's– he's _not._ He's not trying to impress anyone, not Steve nor James; it's just in his nature to be vain and a tad obsessed with his appearance.

With that in mind, Bucky finally steps out of the bathroom. There's distant chatter somewhere in the house, and as he follows it it leads him to the room adjacent to the kitchen. Steve and James' conversation is a bit shushed, something private but not secretive, and Bucky almost feels like an intruder as he rounds the corner and steps inside the living room.

And then his heart drops at the sight that greets him.

**Author's Note:**

> PS: I realised that the image at the end suggests that that's what Bucky sees when he enters the room. It is not! Haha! You'll have to wait for the next chapter to find out! :P
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://dreadlockholiday.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk/scream/party with me, my inbox is always open! 
> 
> We would love to hear your thoughts <3 
> 
> Happy New Year and I wish you all the best from 2021!


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